


thus mellowed to that tender light

by meggie272



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggie272/pseuds/meggie272
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bloodstone is salty and unforgiving, and being a Hero is hard. The Queen finds a moment of peace amongst it all. Page and the Captain help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thus mellowed to that tender light

The innkeeper didn't look too surprised when the Queen put down several coins on the stickily streaked bar and told him she'd be staying in the same room as the captain and his companion. This was Bloodstone. No one here was particularly prudish. About anything. At all.

 

He didn't even seem fazed by the fact that the monarch of his land was staying in his pub, although he had asked sharply if she'd brought any redcoats with her, as they tended to upset the customers. There was little love for the throne in Bloodstone, only a grudging and indifferent respect, if you were lucky. She'd assured him that no, she hadn't brought a personal guard, and didn't tell him about the plain clothes mingling with the constant ebb and flow of rough-edged, hard-eyed locals in the street outside, just a little bit sharper and a little bit straighter-backed than the rest of the tide they moved in. Good lads. She'd have to buy them a beer on the way back.

 

And she was glad, she really was, not to have to field any meaningful looks with an “Ooh, your honour” lurking behind the smirk. The rumour mill did not need any more enthusiastic contributions, and the flourishing dirty postcard industry did _not_ need to issue yet another royalty-themed set. Especially not when Ben was so keen on collecting them.

 

No, she didn't need any of that right now. It had been a long day, and then, after that, a long night. Negotiations with the smugglers could be brutal. _Had_ been brutal. They were big enough and strong enough down here that simply marching in with a shiny crown and a shiny sword and demanding they just stop all that silly nonsense right now wouldn't work at all. She hadn't had to draw said shiny sword, thankfully, mainly because Ben had been here since last night and he had seen fit to draw his shiny pistol. Ben was terrifying with a gun in his hand – his usual cheery, vague nature narrowed down to a single point: the entire expansive being of Ben Finn condensed into a ruler-straight line starting at his eye, going down his unwavering arm and ending in the unforgiving finality of the barrel _._ He became pure wisecracking steel, an immovable object and an unstoppable force in one.

Quite the asset to the kingdom, really. Good thing he was on the Right Side. These days, at least.

 

It was interesting, because these people were his people, once upon a time.

 

Nowadays, when the men who belonged to the fringes talked about Ben Finn in dark and dirty pubs, they didn't call him one of their own. They called him the 'Hero's terrier', which he secretly liked.

 

The Queen was tired, and the sun was starting to rise, the murky grey of dawn streaked through with pink. She could stay on her feet for a long time, for days and days and days, but far from home and in this town that slammed you in the face one way or another she wanted the escape of sleep. She was grateful for the bed, simple though it was with its lack of hanging satin curtains and embroidered bedsheets, and barely even noticed the arm that curled around her waist and pulled her closer, or the sweet, spicy smell of Page's perfume.

 

She woke up two hours later.

 

She'd stopped sleeping into the day as soon as she'd learnt she was a Hero and that the throne was hers. It was like Albion dragged her awake, Albion's skies and Albion's soil asking for her to be under them, above them, filling her lungs with its air, feeling its sun and its rain on her skin and in her hair, feeling its earth under her feet even beneath the cobblestones of the city streets. Deep down, singing to her. Now that she knew of Albion, knew of it _truly,_ knew of it as the living thing that it was, large and quivering and desperate for a master,it wouldn't let her be for long. She was the ruler, but she was also a slave to the bond between Land and Hero, between Land and Queen, an ancient bond that burned in her blood and in her bones and never let her rest. Sometimes she thought she'd be happier if she slept under the stars, the earth breathing around her and the nightflowers opening up their petals to the moon, but that wasn't really practical and generally led to some sort of rude awakening by bandit or Hobbe confused about why some dimwit in a crown was passed out in the mud, but not too confused to give killing them and nicking the crown a decent try. So she slept in nice comfy beds instead, and resigned herself to waking up when the sun was still thin and watery and the market stalls stood empty.

 

Ben? Ben did not share this compulsion to an early rise.

 

If he was tired, he slept, and the heavens collapsing would not wake him until he was perfectly ready to be woken. He made up for this for being able to run for frankly alarming lengths of time on pure adrenaline and coffee, but only if there was a good reason.

_“We don't all have the stamina of a Hero, you know,” he mumbled sleepily,_ and that had led to far too many lewd jokes about stamina, and Ben had found a couple of reasons to stay awake that met his fairly stringent standards.

 

The Queen and Page had perfected the technique of rousing him when there was some sort of emergency, but they were careful with this almost supernatural power that had surely been gifted to them by the gods, and did not use it unless it was absolutely essential. His resistance to waking might evolve and level up if challenged too many times. Who knew.

 

The Queen disentangled herself from the bedsheets, and still in that half-asleep state where the body moves without any input from the brain at all, swung her legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floorboards were cold under her bare feet, creaking drunkenly like everything else in a five-mile radius.

 

She stood up. Stretched. Yawned.

 

The room was still fairly dark, everything in soft tones of grey, but shafts of early morning sunlight were filtering through the thick, dusty glass of the window, painting golden stripes over the tangled mess of the bed.

 

The bed that currently contained a half-naked and very soundly asleep Captain Ben Finn.

 

Page was nowhere to be seen, and some deep instinct in Ben's slumbering mind alerted him to the fact that he now had a whole double bed to himself – he rolled over on to his back, mumbled something and sprawled his limbs out extravagantly. The blankets had twisted around his waist, the sunlight setting his blonde hair on fire and illuminating the jut of a collarbone.

 

As the Queen's blood began to flow again properly and her mind's gears slowly began turning, she watched her captain sleep. He looked younger than he was, all soft gold and slightly parted lips, a blue bruise just above his left nipple shot through with purple.

 

He frowned slightly, like there was something bothering him in his dreams.

 

The door that led to the rickety, dangerous balcony opened and someone came up behind her, footsteps soft and purposeful as a cat. The Queen knew it was Page, even without the smell of wildflowers and spice.

 

“Look at our Ben,” the Queen said, head a little to the side, still slightly fascinated and wishing she knew how to paint. “He looks like he's about twelve.”

 

Page moved beside her and put a hand on the small of her back, very lightly. “Well, he does have about as much chest hair as a twelve-year-old. So you made it here all right, then? That Finch arsehole didn't give you any trouble?”

 

The Queen smiled and turned, pressed a kiss to Page's forehead. She loved this, the quiet dimness of the room, the liquid paint of morning, the way the roof slanted so low that if Ben rolled over a bit to the left and sat up quickly he could knock himself out on a ceiling beam. There are perfect moments, amidst the weight of ruling, amidst the endless blood and loss and ache that is a Hero's lot. Ben and Page, Page and Ben, the sunlight, the softness, a job done and a city with its castle waiting at the end of the road home. “Not at all. Ben scared the shit out of them beforehand, they were very willing to talk about things nicely.”

 

Page laughed. “Yeah, he was pleased with himself about that one.”

  
“Are you coming back with us?”

 

Page rubbed her temple and sighed heavily. “Probably not. I still have some unfinished business here. Sorry, but it shouldn't take too long.”

 

The Queen nodded. She never inquired too much. Page was her own master, and she ran her own affairs. If she wanted to talk about them, or if she wanted help, she'd ask. If she didn't, then she wouldn't.

 

Ben and the Queen both trusted her. She had the kingdom in her heart, as well as the pair of them.

 

Her honesty and loyalty were fierce like a wildfire, but so was her independence. And so the Queen just nodded, and did not inquire too much, and trusted.

 

They’d both been a little bit in love with her from the start. The Queen’s heart had begun beating faster after that first meeting in the sewer, rapid and uncomfortable beneath her dress. She watched Page walk away with her back held straight and her chin held high, unimpressed by royalty, queen of her own castle, queen of the sewers, queen of the city; she’d shared a nervous look with the captain, and they’d both thought: oh, shit. 

 

_“God, Page, I almost feel sorry for all the men who've tried to cut your wings,” Ben said, slightly drunk, running a finger down her spine._

_“I stole their blades and took them for my own,” Page said, her eyes dark like wine._

Page tilted her head to the side and surveyed the sleeping man in their bed. “He's not really _our_ Ben though, is he? He's Ben Finn's Ben.”

 

Page refused to be trapped by anyone, and one might think the same of the Captain, smartarse with great sideburns and A Past, but the Queen _knew_ the way Ben got when he went longer than a week without seeing the two of them.

 

“Oh, I don't know. He's ours a little bit.”

 

“Ours a little bit,” Page agreed affably.  “Hey. You slept in your clothes.” She tugged at a sleeve of wrinkled blue satin.

 

The Queen grimaced. “I took off my coat. Look.” She pointed in the general direction of something that was probably her coat in an opposite corner. “And my shoes. And my crown.” Hooked over the bedpost. Oh dear.

 

“Not very queenly of you. Not very hygienic, either.” Impeccable eyebrow raise.

 

“Well! At least I don't go gallivanting around half-naked like some people I could mention,” and with the verbal acknowledgment of it it actually sunk in that Page wasn't wearing much. A man's vest, a pair of shorts far too big and held up loosely with a drawstring. “Are you wearing Ben's underwear?”

 

“It’s clean.” They were ridiculously over large, the cotton very white against her dark skin.

 

“Suits you.”

 

“Thanks. Hang on, let me - “ Page slipped behind her, fingers suddenly at the back of her dress, undoing the hooks. “This dress is a mess, you know. Jasper will cry.”

 

The Queen laughed, and then sighed a little in relief as the heavy, stiff satin slipped down over her shoulders, the top of the dress falling down around her waist. Page's fingers were cool on the hot skin of her waist, and it was lovely for a moment, until she was jabbed in the soft part just underneath her ribcage, because Page was sadistic and _awful._ The Queen yelped in a very un-royal fashion. “Hey!”

 

It was at this moment that the slumbering soldier in the bed decided to rejoin the world of the living. Ben blinked himself awake and groaned in a fashion not unlike a Hollow Man. He rolled over with an almighty yawn, and squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, opening them again and blinking until the mess of sleep-blurred colour and light coalesced into something meaningful.

 

“Hello,” he mumbled, and then his still squinty face broke into a bright grin. “You're all rather under-dressed.”

 

“Could say the same for you, Ben.” The Queen paused. “Hey. Thanks for the other night. Finch was easily persuaded.”

 

Ben rolled over on to his back, smug as a cat and sleepy as one too, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one large hand. “Waking up to you taking your clothes off is thanks enough, love. No words necessary. Although you could arrest Page for thievery of a highly esteemed officer's delicates. She’s a menace to society.”

 

“Oh, shut up, terrier,” Page snapped. “Woof,” Ben mumbled, reaching out a hand for her, and then for the Queen, who was laughing at the pair of them. She took the hand, and let herself be pulled down. The sunlight was strong and golden. Outside, Bloodstone simmered, defiant, the air salty with ocean spray, the ships coming in to port.

 

The Queen looked up at the window.

 

Albion called, endlessly.

 

Maybe – maybe this morning, Albion could wait.


End file.
